


Femme Fatale

by not_a_baby_unicorn



Series: Johnlock One-Shots and Other Mythical Beasts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also a "borrowed" car because why not, And always good if you need to be bailed out of jail, BAMF John, Badass Ladies because FUCK YEAH, F/F, Female John, Female Mycroft, Female Sherlock, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Just accept that most characters are genderbent, Kissing, She's also slightly badass, Shooting from a car because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_a_baby_unicorn/pseuds/not_a_baby_unicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were sitting thigh-by-thigh, Joan's hands busy fiddling with the handgun, Sherlock's on the wheel. A comfortable silence formed between them, some local news station broadcasting in the background radiostatic buzz.</p><p>The landscape was brutally uninteresting; sheep and fields filled green spaces so regularly that any disruption in the pattern was immediately eye-catching; The sun was beginning to set.</p><p>-------------------------------------------</p><p>In which Sherlock and Joan go carjacking, Grace Lestrade has to deal with a missing Lamborghini and Myrtie Holmes pokes her nose in.<br/>Also making out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Femme Fatale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callasandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callasandra/gifts).



> Thanks to my beautiful beta Callasandra for editing this. I'm eternally grateful, which is why you get this fic!  
> ^-^

The most intimate part of a kiss is not the pressing of the lips or even darting of tongues; it’s the sentiment behind all that.   
Someone else is breathing into your lungs, and it’s either heaven, or its hell. That shared breath so deliriously frail, that momentous break for air either an invitation for more, or a pause in time; a stop that could be carried on, by the ghost of a feeling that remains.

Looking back, neither could tell who quite initiated it. Whenever asked about their first kiss, Sherlock claimed she did, but Joan usually laughed and waved a hand dismissively, with a murmur of “Course you did”. Regardless, it was something to remember.

 --¤--¤--¤--

The infamous duo was yet again in the middle of affairs; Sherlock driving a borrowed (stolen) car, Joan, shooting from the adequately named shotgun seat, all while chasing another blasted serial killer down a private airplane runway. Said killer was not very keen on being caught and vanished into a police car as soon as they were in sight of Sherlock’s I-eat-terrorists-for-breakfast face. Case closed. People saved. 

Joan Watson was leaning out of the car window, smirking grimly as her best friend yet again belittled the local police force. This time, Sherlock decided to include the plane company in her insults, “incompetent, thick, mules” being the kindest one.

"They really don’t learn, do they?"

Joan was sitting cross-legged on the front mask of the “borrowed” Lamborghini, cleaning her gun. She raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose not. Why, did they insist that we're sent off from here as soon as possible?"

She grinned at her feet, and twisted the barrel in her hands.

"Quite so, they demand that we are dispatched as early as we can do. They claim they have a politician coming in, which is bollocks. I checked the flight schedules a while before we even got here."

"Yep.They're either hiding something…" She licked her lips and uncrossed her legs, letting them dangle over. "…Or they must really bloody hate us. We helped them catch a serial killer, for God's sake!"

Sherlock's painted lips quirked into a grin. Joan felt her own smile soften into something more open, less guarded.

"A mass murderer, Joan. There's a difference."

"Sure, sugar. Big difference, if you ever bothered to ask-"

A voice from the group of conversing people stopped Joan short. It was Lestrade, running over and waving what looked like a warrant. Sherlock turned sharply. 

"I think she's onto us. Get in the Lamborghini."

"Oh shit. I hope your sister can bail us out."

Sherlock moved towards her companion, closing the gap between them. Joan sucked in her breath.

Sherlock cleared her throat and climbed back onto her seat, a theatrical whisper marring the (quite awkward) silence.

"That won't be necessary."

She slammed the gas.

\--¤--¤--¤--

According to Joan, Myrtie appeared out of fucking  _nowhere_. 

They had gotten a fair distance away from the airfield safely, which was a blessing, as the blonde later claimed. Usually, Sherlock's driving was rather different than the average persons. She would ignore any signs or laws and barrel down the road as fast as possible. (Then again, when was the last time she was average? When was the last time Joan ever wanted her to be?)

This time however, even the blogger began to relax in the duckling yellow car. Cruising down an empty, country road and blasting some loud rock song (possibly AC/DC but it didn't matter, not at that moment.) was one of the better ways of spending a summer afternoon after solving a murder case. She tipped her head lazily toward the detective, lips parted slightly. 

"So…what now? We can't run forever."

Sherlock sighed. "Neither can we keep this car forever. It was an experiment at first, but I do realize that Ginger won't be too happy that we took a joyride courtesy of New Scotland Yard."

Joan nodded, furrowing her brow at "Ginger". After a few seconds, she realized her partner-in-crime must've meant Lestrade. 

"Shame, really. The owner only keeps this to show off. Sports cars should ride fast, all the country club members used to claim. They were idiots anyway."

"Posh git"

"Jumper-loving imbecile"

"Hey! They're cardigans!"

"Defensive of your wardrobe, are you?" Sherlock smirked and shifted closer in her seat.

"Maybe," Joan replied, grinning. "By the way, where are we?"

"Sussex??? Maybe further than that" 

"That's nice."

"Mhm."

 They were sitting thigh-by-thigh, Joan's hands busy fiddling with the handgun, Sherlock's on the wheel. A comfortable silence formed between them, some local news station broadcasting in the background radiostatic buzz.

The landscape was brutally uninteresting; sheep and fields filled green spaces so regularly that any disruption in the pattern was immediately eye-catching; The sun was beginning to set.

Sherlock's sunglasses were burning an orange hue like fiery embers; with raven hair flying out behind her in the wind, she looked like a goddess; Ethereal, yet fierce in her beauty.  

Joan was lit up by the dying sunlight like an ethereal being, the last rays of day reflecting in blue eyes outlined in smudged black, sleep circles, shadowy, and dangerous. 

 Joan cocked her head, listening. 

"Sherlock"

 Sherlock nodded at her friend, reapplying her lipstick lazily before replying.

 "What do you wish to ask?" She rolled down the bullet-shaped cosmetic and put a lid on it. Joan decided to ignore the fact that she wasn't holding the wheel with her hands anymore, but instead had taken off her sandals and was now driving with one foot. She guessed the other was still on the gas pedal.

"Just pay attention for one second, Sherlock. It's important."

"What is it?"

"We're being tailed."

It wasn't a surprise. They weren't very good at paying attention when they were near each other. Everything gravitated towards either Sherlock or Joan- it depended on whose eyes you were looking through.

A long, black vehicle had very neatly jammed itself behind them like a stubborn divider from freedom.

"Well, there goes a week of peace."

Sherlock regarded her sister's car with a murderous glare. Myrtie Holmes, the bane of their existence.

 "I don't understand how we didn't bloody notice." Joan huffed. The brunette nodded stiffly. 

"It is rather like Myrtie to poke her nose into other people's business but I expected her to be more discreet."

She was obviously upset at her own lack of observance. 

"Cheer up, sugar. They might get bored and go back to paperwork."

"I don't think so, no."

"Then I guess I'll have to shoot them." The blonde snarled dangerously close to Sherlock's face, gun appearing in her left hand. The detective swallowed an exclamation of  _'Damn, she's hot.'_ and instead looked over her shoulder. A tall man sat in the drivers’ seat.

"As much as I'd love to get rid of my sibling, I would say it's unwise to do as you plan while she has Anthony with her. It might not be his real name, but he is quite, ah, devoted to his job."

 Joan sighed heavily and laid the gun on the dashboard like some sort of mascot. 

"What do we do?"

She raised an eyebrow. Sherlock was still. 

"Unfortunately, my dear Joan, we pull over. Myrtie has some explanations to deliver, and I would rather she delivered them before Ginny arrives."

"It's Grace Lestrade." Joan replied, rolling her eyes.

\--¤--¤--¤--

Myrtie (Not short for Myrtle, thank you very much) Holmes was leaning against the hood of her Range Rover as Sherlock ranted.  It was pretty obvious that the eldest Holmes wasn't listening, yet still the younger shouted and scorned. 

Joan took it upon herself to get them out of there and walked over to Anthony. 

"Hey. Anthony."

"Yes, Miss Watson?"

"You have government immunity, right?"

"I would guess so."

"...Do you like sports cars? I seem to have one spare."

She handed the keys over and sauntered over to the bickering Holmeses, whistling innocently. Sherlock almost immediately stopped talking and inspected her friend. 

"Did you just-"

"Give a stolen car to Anthony-what's-his-name? Of course, I couldn't have found an easier way to get rid if it."

"Oh. Well then, sister dearest, we shall be off."

Myrtie Holmes grimace didn't resemble a smirk, but Joan decided to take it as one anyway.

"Goodbye Myrtie. I hope for the sake of my sanity we don't meet anytime soon."

"Touché"

Sherlock wrinkled her nose in disgust. Joan smiled forcefully at the elder sister and turned to Sherlock.

"You said something about a house in the country?"

Sherlock immediately brightened. 

"Yes! The Danforth Estate! We have business there to attend." said the detective, catching Joan's hand in hers and dragging the blogger towards one of Myrtie's spare cars.

Well shit, thought Joan. There goes my chance at hiding any potential feelings. Sherlock found discovering that kind of stuff as easy as a bloodhound catching a scent.

She prayed to any gods in existence her hand wasn't sweaty

\--¤--¤--¤--

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" 

"Come along now, Joan!"

"This is trespassing! Scratch that, this is breaking and enteri…Sherlock!"

A window was all that stood between the two women, the shorter one with a gun tucked into her belt and fuming, the other inside the (hopefully) empty house trying to pick a lock and definitely not thinking about how attractive her friend looked while angry.

Sherlock had found a small rock and smashed the glass to climb through. However, her blogger was too short to reach and thus the situation arose.

The lock was making quite a lot of scratchy, grating noises; The brunette wasn't helping by cursing all Swiss people and their love for mechanisms. Realizing that most of Switzerland couldn't hear her -even though she was making so much noise that Joan wouldn't be surprised if they did- she moved onto accusing her companion. 

"Honestly, Joan! Why haven't you picked up any athletics or gymnastics in our years together! I would've thought a woman with your skill set would be capable of climbing through a few windows!"

Joan always thought herself a half decent fighter and doctor, disadvantaged only because of her (unfortunate) height. She found herself once again envying her brother, who stood at a decent 5'9", and contemplating Sherlock's lean, 6'2" frame, which she reminded herself not to ogle so blatantly the next time they were together in daylight. She sighed through her teeth.

"If I must remind you one more fucking time why I cannot climb through a window ten feet off the ground I swear I will shoot myself."

"As if you would dare; don't threaten me like that, you know you wouldn't do it." said Sherlock, laughing grimly. She immediately regretted it. Who knew what Joan Watson would do? All that the detective knew was that if Joan decided it was time to become a suicidal/homicidal maniac, she would go with her. 

"Wanna bet?"

Ah. There goes the adrenaline junkie part of her personality, thought Sherlock. Maybe slightly dark. 

 

A click in the door and a shrill but definitely male voice from the other side stopped them both in their tracks. Sherlock's face appeared in the window space.

"Erm... The owner is back!?"

"No shit. Alright, we need to get out of here. How are you on landing on your face? 'Cause that's what it looks like from here."

She giggled, but her insides were freezing. She was good enough at tracking to guess the size of the man. It didn't look good, and Sherlock must've realized it too as she was frantic, suddenly disappearing back inside.

"Joan. This is no time for jokes. This man is heavy-set and in his late thirties, most probably armed as this is, after all, the countryside. From what I can deduce, he's heading down the steps right about now."

Joan clenched her fists. Desperately, she wished it was her inside there, not her Sherlock. If that man tries  _anything_ - 

"Oi! What're you doing in my basement?"

Sherlock's smirk-filled tone rang out like a bullet. "What do you think I'm doing, idiot? Picking daisies?"

Just like her to be over-confident, Joan thought. She always was cocky when she was afraid, trying too hard to remain cool and suave. Like every other time she tried handling things alone, it was time for Joan to play the part of the blonde superhero.

"Police! Open up!" She snarled, imitating Grace Lestrade as best as she could. It must've worked, because Sherlock's hand reappeared through the window, waved and did a thumbs-up. A second later the door was wide open. The poor guy didn't even have time to react. In the time that it took him to step out into the doorway, Joan Watson was already on top of him, a gun smashed across the brow and unconscious body used as carpeting. In the same instant Sherlock had grabbed something from his belt and bolted out into the open field of moonlight.

"Hey! Where are you going?!"

"We've got everything that we need! Come along now, Joan!" called Sherlock, already disappearing into the shadowy black-and-white of night. Puzzled, the doctor followed.

\--¤--¤--¤--

In the end, it was quite simple.

As everybody except Sherlock was shocked to hear, the man they had "assaulted" was actually a helper of the mass murderer they had caught that evening. How Sherlock knew this, Joan had no idea. But she wasn't complaining. At least she wouldn't be charged for smashing someone's head in, evil as they may be, and she was grateful.

The return to Baker Street was uneventful except for a snoring Sherlock sprawled across the back seat. Her dark curls were fanned out across like a peacock's tail and the doctor could swear that she was drooling. At any rate, her lipstick was smeared.

It was Joan's turn to drive the car they rented, and that meant no more crazy escapades or joyriding on the wrong side of the road (Well, no more than an adrenaline junkie might want.) As they pulled up into Baker Street, the detective made a noise that sounded suspiciously like the quadratic equation and woke up.

"Where're we?" Her hair stuck up at a weird angle and she was missing a shoe. Joan stifled a yawn and a simultaneous laugh.

Baker Street was lit up dimly by streetlights, a warm, golden-fluorescent glow that could only ever be associated with London lampposts. A thin fog veiled the grey of the pavement. Joan opened the car door and accidentally inhaled the smog, nearly choking on the change from country air. It tasted like exhaust fumes, but it was familiar.

"Home. We're home."

Sherlock looked up, face flushed slightly. She turned towards the window to examine their surroundings. Baker Street.

"Anywhere is home if you're there." she said in a small voice, almost a whisper. Not on purpose. It just kind of- slipped out.

 Joan's heart broke at that very moment. 

"Come here." the doctor paused, unsure of how to continue but definite about her goal. Sherlock inched closer and ran a hand through her untamed locks.

"You smudged your lipstick." Joan continued, frowning.

"Oh. I must've done that in my sleep. Sorry about that. I don't usually-"

"Sleep on cases, yes I know. But it's over now." It was Joan turn to drop her voice to a murmur.

 "We did it…Again... Just like always."

"Let's go inside."

"Yes.”

But they didn’t. They stayed inside the car, staring at each other intently.

Oh what the hell, Joan thought. This whole ‘pining for each other but we won’t do anything about it because we’re both stubborn gits’ thing was getting old. It was up to her (why did most things decide to hand themselves over to her as if she was a responsible adult?) once more.

Infuriatingly, Sherlock had the same thought as she lunged at Joan, “Carpe Diem” forming on her lips before the blonde moved forward and took control of the kiss.

 It wasn’t perfect, because nothing in life ever is. If it was perfect, it wouldn’t be satisfying- the whole of humanity’s greatest pleasures and sins lie in imperfections. But even while she thought that, Sherlock decided that Joan’s lips coincidentally were perfect. They could be synonymic. She could even stretch as far as to worship them.

And Joan wouldn’t argue with that. Nor with the next kiss that followed almost as soon as the previous ended, a ghost left behind, a smudge of crimson staining their lips. It was almost a mark of ownership, Joan considered, deciding that she would gladly be covered in the red lipstick as long as it was Sherlock who applied it.

“I wouldn’t want to get ahead of myself, but I think I’ve fallen in love with you in the space of a few seconds.”

 “I’ve… I mean… Well,…From the first day.” Sherlock mumbled.

Sherlock loved Joan, from the very beginning, before her faked suicide, before Joan nearly married a cruel man, before everything of importance happened.

Sherlock loved her. And Joan couldn’t quite comprehend what having a woman like Sherlock Holmes love you could mean. It was terrifying, in every single translation of the word.

“I think I’m afraid. Not of you, but of what the future could hold for us.”

“It is foolishness to be afraid of what you can change or influence. It is common sense to be frightened of what you cannot.”

Sherlock tilted her head, questioning. It was a silent plea for mercy, for a quick death, a painless parting. Joan gave her none of those.

Instead, she leant forward and kissed her again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another quick one-shot not written in half an hour but over like, three nights. Goodbye, sleep. Hello, handful of readers.
> 
> In other news, solar eclipse tomorrow if you're in western Europe! I know this has nothing to do with anything whatsoever but I'm still excited about space stuff.  
> Remember- as all things hot, the sun burns if you look at it. Which is why you should still not look directly at the sun (Or Callasandra, for that matter :P) as you could damage your eyes looking at that hot, hot thing.
> 
> Once more- thank you to my beautiful beta Callasandra


End file.
